The bar reeked of smoke and spilled beer, amps buzzing even after the set ended. Michael McKagan had played like he wanted to break the stage in half — stockings shredded, boots untied, bass practically screaming. Classic Duff-before-Duff.

Everyone backed away when he jumped down from the stage. He didn’t smile, didn’t nod, didn’t talk. He shoved past people like they were just furniture in his way.

Because he was looking for you.

You were leaning against the wall, pretending you weren’t waiting on him. He hated that you were good at that — acting unbothered, acting like he didn’t get under your skin.

He came up behind you fast, hands grabbing your hips and dragging you back against him, breath warm on your neck.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” you said, not even turning around.

“Yeah?” His voice was low, rough. “Didn’t think you’d stare at me the whole damn set either, but you did.”

You scoffed. “I wasn’t staring.”

He laughed — sharp, cocky, the kind that made your heart jump. “Sweetheart, you don’t look away from me. Not when I’m onstage.”

His fingers slid under the hem of your jacket, holding you tighter, like he owned the moment.

“You looked good tonight,” he muttered against your jaw, tone half-tease, half-truth. “Almost made me fuck up a song.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Yeah? And you like it.” He kissed your jaw — not soft, not careful, just hungry enough to make your knees go weak.

Then he added, quieter, almost annoyed at himself:

“Don’t make me chase you after every show. Just stay with me.”